Cabot steps out of the car and tosses his backpack onto his shoulder. Even from here I can see his hair is mussed, as if he just rolled out of bed or rode top-down on the way into school. He drags his fingers through it, pulling the black waves from his face. He’s wearing dark jeans (not skinny, thank God!) and a matching dark plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, natch. His blue/black eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses that I’m guessing cost more than my entire thrifted wardrobe. All he’s missing is a cigarette dangling from his lips and a wash of sepia coloring and he’d be a 1950s heartthrob. If James Dean and Elvis Presley had a baby, he’d look like Cabot.

Up until last weekend, I’ve never paid much attention to Cabot. He’s obviously supercute, as anyone over twelve and under dead can see, but at school he’s just another person I pass in the halls, because in the Venn diagram of NextGen social circles, Cabot’s and mine don’t overlap. That saying, “birds of a feather”? Well, my scholarship got me here, but didn’t come with the requisite gold-tipped plumage for Cabot’s flock. Jacen and I, we fit. Our being together was effortless, so much so that being with someone other than Jacen honestly never crossed my mind before last weekend.

As Cabot saunters toward me it starts to sink in what we’re about to do, what we’re about to pretend to be, and I wonder if I have the acting chops to pull it off. I set my suddenly clammy hands on my hips and do my best to strike a cool, confident pose.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply. Awkward silence stretches between us for what feels like my entire life up to this point until I remember that I have notes to alleviate just these sorts of situations. I dig into my bag and pull them out. “Here, I jotted down some notes for us, things that will help this, us, run smoothly: my class schedule, directions to my locker, some scenes we might want to do in front of people to add to our hooking-up credibility.”

“Scenes? Like acting scenes?”

“Yeah. It’s not a complete script or anything, just some ideas, snippets of dialogue I thought might be good.” He takes the pages and thumbs through them. Okay, it’s more than a few pages; more like a packet, really.

Cabot removes his sunglasses and hooks them onto the collar of his undershirt. “Um, wow…thanks. Are you always this—”

“Anal retentive?” I finish for him because I know that’s what he’s thinking. The other theater nerds think it, too. Even Jacen. Because I’d rather rehearse than hang out sometimes. Because I’m always the first one off book, and I know not only my lines, but everyone else’s, too.

He gives me an odd look. “No, I was going to say prepared.” There’s not a hint of sarcasm, derision, or condescension in his tone. His sincerity makes me relax and the butterflies go still.

“‘By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.’ That’s my motto,” I say.

Out loud.

Like an idiot.

Maybe I relaxed too soon?

About Crazy, Stupid, Fauxmance(Creative HeArts, #3):

Disclaimer: This Entangled Teen Crush book contains a kickass heroine, a boy so hot he’ll make you shiver, and a falling-in-love story fit for the big screen. You’ll want to settle in and have the popcorn ready.

After Mariely Hinojosa and Cabot Wheeler both break up with their significant others at the same party, Mariely sees a way to get even with both of their exes. Everyone knows that the best way to get over a breakup is a hookup—a fake hookup, that is. Three weeks, all fun, no strings, and definitely no heartbreak at the end.

But somewhere between the sweet hand-holding and melt-your-mind kisses, their fake relationship starts to feel less like an act and more like the real thing…but Mariely’s a free-spirited girl from the other side of the tracks, and Cabot’s the hot trust-fund guy from the Hills.